


whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

by littledust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-23
Updated: 2007-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean isn't quite sure how to explain that he has an expiration date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

**Author's Note:**

> Post-AHBL II. Title courtesy of e.e. cummings. Written for [](http://krisomniac.livejournal.com/profile)[**krisomniac**](http://krisomniac.livejournal.com/) in the [](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_summerlove/profile)[**spn_summerlove**](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_summerlove/) exchange.

The ocean glints heavy and secret on either side, the sky's dark mirror reflecting blue right back up. Sam has fucking Oasis on the radio, but they've worked out that every time Dean changes the radio station in disgust, Sam gets another song added to the roster. He can deal with warbling about a wonderwall (whatever the hell that is) if it means only a few more minutes of aural torture.

They're in Rhode Island, in some tiny town past Newport, so tiny it wasn't even on half of the maps they looked at. Bobby called to forward a message about possible supernatural activity, something ripping tourists apart out at sea. They're meeting the woman who made the initial call at the docks. Dean parks the Impala and says to Sam that this Diane Sawyer better be hot, but his heart really isn't in it. _Dead man walking,_ his footsteps seem to say every time his boots hit the ground. _Dead man, dead man, dead man..._

So even when Diane Sawyer turns out to be a lightly freckled redhead with legs up to her neck, she gets something like a real smile from him, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards while Sam does his usual "I'm Sam, and this is Dean" song and dance. (In better days, he was always tempted to add, "And we're alcoholics" after that familiar introduction.) Her smile is polite but distant: so much the better.

"Three weeks ago, a vacationing couple disappeared," Diane says after the initial pleasantries, getting straight down to business. "No bodies, just an abandoned boat at sea. Strange because the weather was clear that day, but you can drown in any weather if you don't know how to handle yourself." She pauses for just a second, almost so that it isn't noticeable. "Then a body did wash up. The wife, and she was clawed up beyond... anything I've seen. A few days later, a local went out fishing and disappeared. It's been one or two people every five days or so since then."

"Are they all found in the same place?" Dean asks. Claw marks at sea... could be a half-dozen creatures, so hopefully there's been some kind of identifying pattern in the attacks. Hopefully it's something they can even kill. The only hunter they know of specializing in deep sea creatures moved to Australia a few years back.

Diane nods. "Boats drift, but with search and rescue out in full force, looks like it's all happening in the same general area of sea. The only land nearby is a couple of rocks sticking out of the water, but still enough for something to hide there. Every body we've found is female, and more men have disappeared than women. I hit up Google and my guess is a siren. Just one, given that relatively few people have disappeared." She seems too self-possessed to betray herself with a nervous gesture, but her expression gives her away: _Did I get it right? Do I sound like an idiot?_ Obviously she doesn't lie for a living.

"I don't know what they'd be doing this side of the Atlantic," Dean says, but Sam immediately chimes in with, "It makes sense. Mythology depicts sirens as birdlike creatures with the heads of women." Trust him to know something like that, though now Dean's having a flashback to ninth grade, The Odyssey, and an illustration in his textbook. He and Sam exchange a look.

"Well, guess we just have to figure out how to kill a siren," Sam says. Diane smiles at that, warm enough so that a single dimple shows; damn, she really is pretty. "But it seems like you've got everything under control here. Why do you need us?" That's Sammy, using big doe eyes to get the story from the witness, except in this case they already _have_ everything they need, so why bother?

She snorts. "I might know what's out there in the dark, but that doesn't mean I've been trained as a hunter. Amateurs tend to get themselves killed, so I called Bobby. My granddad knew him back in the day." The past tense catches her voice just enough to show a glimpse of pain, then it's back on track to the matter at hand. "I'll be coming along, though, unless you two know how to handle a boat and kill sirens at the same time."

Dean wants to protest, but they're pretty much inland hunters--no nautical experts in the Winchester family tree. "You better be good enough not to die on us."

"United States Coast Guard Auxiliary," she replies, snapping off a salute that's definitely sarcastic, like how dare anyone ever doubt her. "That's how I found out about all this. The town's keeping it as quiet as possible so the rest of the tourists aren't scared away."

For a few seconds it's silent except for the screaming of seagulls and the slow slap of seawater. It's an awkward pause, like Sam is waiting for him to say something stupid but charming to Diane, like Sam is waiting for things to go back to normal. Dean almost wants to put on the old face again, but Sam would see through it anyway, so why bother? That question keeps falling through his head these days. _Dead man walking, so why bother?_

"Guess it's time to visit the library," Sam says, and that's the end of that.

*

Turns out the books and the Internet alike say it's pretty easy to kill a siren, if you call shooting it until it's down long enough to light on fire easy. Creatures of watery origin hate fire; funny how real life resembles a video game. You can even bring people back from the dead.

Dean nudges Sam with his foot. "We've got it all figured out, geek boy, so you can put down the book." When Sam doesn't respond, he sneaks a glance at the title. "Hoodoo's got nothing to do with sirens." Diane is off chatting with the librarian, probably still lying through her teeth about helping her old college friends with graduate research, so he adds, "A deal's a deal. You're not gonna find a way to break it."

Sam sighs with real irritation and sets the book down. "Look, I know you can't do any research without the demon coming after me, but you could at least _act_ like you want to live for more than a year."

He shrugs at that, opening his palms in a gesture that isn't quite helplessness. Sam's good at reading signs and glares at him, an expression his face holds more and more, all those times he tries to save Dean and meets only resistance. "Look, maybe you're fine fulfilling your death wish, but I'm _not_. I think I've lost enough family already."

That hits Dean like a sucker punch to the stomach; Sam is playing dirty now, using whatever advantage he can find--doing exactly what Dean would do if their positions were in reverse. There's not even really anything he can _say_ to that, so he just gets up from the table with the pretext of returning some books to the shelves. He's just finished when he turns around and Diane is there.

"You and your brother having a fight?" Then she gets a little red in the face and adds, "Sorry, I know it's none of my business."

"No," Dean answers, and is surprised to find out that it's true. "We just... disagree on something. But we save the fighting for important stuff, like when to change the channel." He grins at her and she grins back and his stomach flips pleasantly. Too bad they met on business instead of a bar; she'd make a good memory to thumb through when it's 3 AM on the road and his eyes are gritty.

"Sam told me you guys are all done with your research," she says. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get rid of this thing before it takes somebody else."

Drive in, kill the beast, ride on out into the sunset. Can't argue with efficiency, neatness, all the strings tied up. Dean says, "We'll get some supplies out of the trunk and then we can head out."

Simplicity. A straight line. Can't complain about it, either.

*

Supplied, they set out to sea, Diane driving her motorboat with her face set in grim, determined lines. Aside from the beach, the coast here is rocky, almost unwelcoming, and it's a relief when there's nothing but sky and water. It's another beautiful summer day (though more like late afternoon edging into evening), and Dean would let his fingers trail through the water if they weren't busy holding a gun. He mouths "You look stupid" to Sam, even though they're all wearing earmuffs. Sam rolls his eyes.

Maybe it's the extra quiet making his thoughts rattle around inside his head more, but the plan seems more and more crazy the closer they get. Dean gives it the mental rundown for the eighth time: get to the island, pump the siren full of lead from the boat, swim ashore, burn the fucker. There are a thousand ways this could go wrong, but it's no more suicidal than anything else he's ever done.

Come to think of it, it's actually _less_ suicidal than some of the things he's done.

Diane provided an accurate description; the island is nothing but a small heap of rocks, arranged against each other just enough to form a cave and a little outcropping for unsuspecting tourists to climb onto out of the water. Diane kills the engine once they get close enough, so now there's nothing left to do but watch and wait.

And wait.

He's beginning to think that they were wrong and there's just a crazed killer shark on the loose when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He jerks the gun up, cursing a blue streak. Dad would kill them for forgetting to watch the skies, _kill_ them. Of course a creature with wings wouldn't stay in a cave all day. The siren is as big as he is, a giant golden bird of prey with the head of a woman. Even without the song, the face is still beautiful enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his first shot go wild. Sam squeezes a shot off but it's fast, faster than anything that big should rightfully be, and now it's pissed off.

It opens its mouth and lets out a _scream_ that makes his earmuffs vibrate hard enough to hurt. Both he and Sam drop the guns and clutch their ears, helpless. Diane doubles over in the driver's seat, face white. It only lasts a few seconds, but it's enough; they're bent over scrabbling for their weapons still ( _move move gotta move go go_ ) when the siren dives the boat, claws out and raking across Sam's exposed back.

"SAM!" Dean bellows, though nobody can hear it, and his gun's in his hands again, solid weight of metal in his hands. He fires again and again and again, only dimly aware of the red seeping across Sam's shirt and Diane revving up the engine. The siren swings back for another pass, prepared to defend its territory to the death, and Dean's only too happy to oblige, landing a shot in its left breast where it might have a heart and then another right between the eyes. It plummets into the water and then Dean starts swearing again. The Greek website they ran through Babelfish had been pretty vague about everything but one point: you never leave a siren for dead unless you've personally burned the carcass.

Luckily Diane wanted to know every little detail about the hunt, so he doesn't have to ask her to bring the boat over to where the siren hit the water. And thank God for hollow bird bones, it's still floating, golden feathers covered in rust-colored gore. The smell makes Dean gag as he reaches out, grabs a talon, and starts hauling it over the side. Diane grabs the other one, and between the two of them they're able to get it on the boat. Dean risks a glance over at Sam, sees him pale but still conscious. All right. Everything will be all right.

Diane reaches over and tugs off his earmuffs. "First aid kit's in the trunk over there, and we need to get out of here before the patrols come by. We can burn the siren at my place." She's all brisk reassurances, but he sees the way her knuckles go white when she gets her hands around the steering wheel.

There's barely enough room to maneuver around the siren, but Dean gets out the first aid kit and makes his way to Sam. "You're absolutely useless," he says, peeling off Sam's shirt. Realizing Sam can't hear him, he pulls the earmuffs off and repeats his comment. Sam groans out something in response, then hisses in pain as Dean starts pouring rubbing alcohol into the wounds on his back. "Seriously, less than two minutes and you're down for the count." More sympathetically: "It took some good chunks out of you." There's almost not enough bandage to cover up all of the damage, but eventually Dean has Sam patched up enough so he won't bleed to death.

He looks up from finishing the job and they're at a small pier in front of a faded yellow cottage, though the light from the setting sun makes it seem not quite so worn. Diane ties the boat up, then turns and asks, "How's Sam?"

"He'll live," Dean answers with a little too much naked relief, because her expression softens like she's seen a lost puppy.

Dragging the siren to the small, pebbly beach requires the two of them getting out of the boat into waist-deep water ("If you don't mind, I'd rather not explain the dried blood on my pier"), but the process doesn't take long. Pouring lighter fluid over the carcass, Dean is glad they went to all the trouble, as he can see its bullet wounds are already less deep. He tosses down a match and it goes up immediately, filling the air with a scent almost disturbingly reminiscent of chicken.

Then it's time to lug another body, and getting a half-conscious Sam all the way into Diane's bedroom and facedown on her bed is no picnic. He checks his brother over one last time and then stands up, tired and aching and soaked--and buzzed on adrenaline, the extra surge after the hunt that his body has never figured out is unnecessary. He follows Diane out into the living room, nerves singing _Alive, alive, alive_ for once, a song better than any siren's, flowing along with the pulse and stir of blood in his veins. _Life, life, life._

He turns to Diane to crack some lame joke about how it was her plan all along to get a Winchester in her bed, but the words die at the fierce not quite joy in her face, the same incredulous triumph at survival he's used to finding in the mirror. _Everyone has secrets,_ he thinks, looking at her hair hanging in wet strands around her face, and isn't surprised when she kisses him like she's been walking a knife edge her whole life, like this is just another crazy thing to do for the sake of crazy things. _Alive._

Instead of doing what he should, pushing her away with some movie line like _I'm dangerous, you're a nice woman_ , he kisses her back because he's a woman-pleaser and it evidently pleases her to feed an urge for self-destruction. Her skin is cool and damp beneath his fingertips, nipples already erect from the wet fabric of shirt and bra, which he slides off, listening to her sigh against his mouth. Dean likes this, likes mapping the skin of women with hands and lips and tongue, likes it when all they can do is gasp and knot their fingers in his hair. He sets Diane on the couch and climbs on top of her, huffs out a laugh when she works his fly open and says, " _Fuck_ your jeans." Despite the difficulties of wet clothing, she has him stripped in about a minute flat, hands around his cock stroking up and over.

"Jesus," he gets out, and the cant of his hips says _Almost dead but I'm still alive._ It takes more concentration than usual to catch her hot little hands with his own, kissing away the flash of vulnerability that gesture brings, letting go to trail his fingers down smooth stomach, her shorts and panties going the same way as her top. Dean usually has a process for this, a very _Zen and the Art of Sex_ kind of thing, but this whole kindred suicidal survivor spirit discovery has him breathless and pitching always forward, like looking down as you stand on the top of a building. She's already wet and her long legs are wrapped around him, pulling him like the tide; her skin tastes of salt, of ocean and sweat. They're rocking each other not to sleep but to oblivion, harsh breathing and nails biting into flesh, warming each other with their own cold. _Alive. Not alone._

In the aftermath of orgasm, they fall asleep in each other's arms.

*

Dean wakes up alone and covered with a blanket. The clock on the wall reads 11 AM; a hunt and sex on the same day will do that to you. In the morning light Diane's cottage looks like a nice place, though it's painfully spare except for the collection of photographs on a nearby table. Yawning, he yanks his clothes on and goes to check on Sam, who's sitting up in bed eating a bowl of cornflakes.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean says. "Ready to hit the road?"

Sam just stares at him like he's gone completely off the deep end, like that wasn't a perfectly normal question to ask. "Diane came in and changed my bandages," he says finally, which also explains the cereal. "I think she's outside making sure the siren is completely gone." Meaningfully: "I think we can go after I finish my breakfast."

 _Shit, you are not subtle,_ Dean wants to say, but nods and makes a lame excuse about helping Diane. He doesn't really want to know what she told Sam, but it's obvious he has some idea of what happened last night. What the hell was he thinking, anyway? There are women you have one-offs with, and then there are women you look at but don't touch. Plenty from both categories are too good for him, but at least the former one he can't hurt.

Diane is sitting on the last patch of grass before the land turns into beach, hair blowing red in the sunshine. She's wearing a yellow sundress, which suits her even as it doesn't, makes her look like someone barely out of high school when she's at least as old as Sam. Her feet are bare.

"So," he says, and she turns to look at him. Under the weight of that gaze, Dean shifts uncomfortably and can't think of anything to say. Not like he had any idea anyway; it's one thing to think _I've got to go, don't think of me_ and another to say it. It's not like he can explain all the whys and wherefores. _Sorry, you're really pretty, but I'm a dead man._ "Sam and me should get going soon," he begins, then curses himself. "About last night, I'm sorry. I mean--"

She reaches up and tugs him down next to her; she doesn't look mad or upset so he sits, grateful. "I know my sob story, but what's got you so fucked in the head?" is what she wants to know instead, which in a way is even worse than tears and screaming.

When he stays quiet, just watching the ebb and flow of the waves, she says, "On the way to America, my granddad made a deal with a deep sea demon. Prosperity in the new world in exchange for something he loved."

He senses the offer, one snippet of history in exchange for one of his. It's easier than letting it all out at once. Siphoned off drop by drop, it's less painful, hurts less to drag out. "I'm sure you saw the scar over Sam's spine. He died two months ago."

Diane nods, like this is no surprise at all to her, and maybe it isn't. Maybe Sam told her the whole story this morning, but there's still his side to tell. She continues her story, her eyes locking with his, letting him know that this is just as hard for her. "Deal turned out to be a family curse. Couple years of prosperity and then my grandmother drowned. My granddad was suspicious, but the last straw was my aunt drowning as a child. Packed up the whole family and shipped out to Arizona."

There are a thousand questions he wants to ask after _that_ revelation, but he'll have to wait his turn. "I made a deal with a demon, my life for Sam's. Got ten months left, give or take." Saying the words feels unexpectedly like a prayer, a benediction. It's a relief talking to someone on the outside, to someone who isn't going to look at him with Sam's eyes and ask, _What will I do without you?_ Diane lays her hand over his, the slight pressure comforting.

"Long story short, my mom drowned when I was little. My granddad raised me, kept searching around for a way to break the curse. That's how he met Bobby. Granddad died a couple years back, so I moved out here and bought a boat. I was tired of running scared my whole life." He doesn't miss the way her voice goes flat to hide the hurt, turns his hand over so he can lace her fingers through with his own. Softly, she says, "It's not so bad, knowing you're going to die. It's just... what you're leaving behind." The gesture she makes with her free hand takes in the whole stretch of land in front of them, the trees and the beach and the bright sea under the sun.

"And you can't leave it behind," he whispers, his voice rough.

"Kiss me," Diane says.

He blinks. "What, on the beach? Isn't that a little... out in the open?" Not that he has any objections, but he never pegged her as the exhibitionist type.

She responds by laughing and climbing onto his lap, long legs around him for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. "Kiss me like we'll never die," she murmurs, and she looks sad and happy at the same time, the dimple out again but her eyes so old. He threads his fingers through her hair, soft now that it isn't soaking wet, kisses her with everything he loves about the world, all the half-strangled hopes and drifting dreams he has left. She lowers him to the ground, dotting his jaw with little kisses light as sunbeams on skin, working his clothes open once more before he goes. There is a tenuous grace to their lovemaking this time, the weight of earth against his back, the light of woman and sky overhead.

"We're going to live forever, Dean Winchester," Diane says, and for a moment he believes her.

*

They're driving back over the bridge, this time with a Zeppelin tape blaring, as is only right and just. "The Girl I Love She Got Long Black Wavy Hair" isn't quite Diane, but then, he isn't quite in love with her, either. But whatever he did evidently met Sam's approval, because he didn't put up any fuss about leaving, though he did have a choice remark about the sand in Dean's hair. He's feeling pretty good, all things considered, so he cranks the volume and shoots a glance at Sam disguised as a grin.

Sam doesn't notice, absorbed in some book he snuck out of the library yesterday. Sure enough, it's the one on hoodoo, and he opens his mouth to tell him he's wasting his time. Then he shuts it and switches off the tape instead.

That makes Sam look up, startled. "Dean?"

"Figured you could read better if it's quiet," Dean mutters, which is all the admission Sam's ever going to get from him, but it's enough. Sam's face splits into a grin.

"Actually, the music helps me concentrate."

White lie though it may be, Dean immediately turns the music back on. Long drives are terrible without music to fill the gaps of conversation, and it looks like Sam's going to be buried in his research for a long while yet. It's a good day, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along with the bass line. On either side is the ocean going on and on, and where it isn't deep blue, it's filled with light.


End file.
